I Am
by Mousme
Summary: Sam isn't quite himself anymore. Dean stays anyway. AU after 6.22


Title: **… I Am**

Summary: Sam isn't quite himself anymore. Dean stays anyway.

Characters: Sam, Dean, Sam and Sam

Rating: R

Wordcount: 2,626

Disclaimer: Playing in Gamble's sandbox before the new season starts. No profit, no harm intended, etc.

Warnings: graphic imagery, self-harm, mental illness

Neurotic Author's Note #1: Written for **summer_sam_love** for a couple of prompts by **cordelia_gray**. The first prompt asked for a post-fall-of-the-Wall!Sam with enhanced and uncontrolled powers/migraines, and the second asked for a Sam lost in his own mind, with Dean going in (perhaps by dreamwalking) in order to help him sort himself out. This is the unrecognisable bastard child of those two prompts, with a bit of acid and Doctor Seuss thrown in for good measure.

Neurotic Author's Note #2: Dear** cordelia_gray**, I am sorry. There is very little 'c' in this particular h/c story. I hope you still like it anyway. /o\

* * *

"Sam?"

"I'm sorry, the Sam you're looking for is out of his mind right now," Sam grins up at Dean from where he's sitting wedged up against the far wall of his room, arms locked around his knees. There's blood staining his teeth, bright red against white bone. "If you leave a message, I'm sure he'll get back to you as soon as –oh, wait, that's right, he won't. Sorry," the mock-apology comes in a sing-song even as Sam's face grows serious.

Dean wipes a hand over his mouth, feels the rasp of stubble against the smooth skin of his palm. "So who are you?"

The grin is back. "I'm Sam."

"But you just said–" Dean should know better than to argue, he really should by now, but he can't help himself. He's never been able to help himself when it comes to Sam.

"I'm still Sam, even if Sam isn't here," Sam giggles, a terrible, high-pitched sound that he never would have made before. Dean's heard that sort of sound before, listened to it every day for ten years alongside of the screaming and sobbing and pleading and babbling. "Sam, Sam, Sam. Sam-I-Am. You remember that? I would not like them in a box, Dean, definitely not a box."

Dean steels himself, takes that first step into the tiny room because anything else feels a little too much like surrender. "You're bleeding, Sammy. Did you hurt yourself?"

Sam's eyes cut away. "I bit my tongue."

Dean doesn't even flinch anymore when the sound of shattering glass rings out through the apartment. This is the reason they left Bobby's, after all. Dean still isn't sure how he's ever going to repay Bobby for the six or so broken windows, even though Bobby assured him that they shouldn't worry about it. He's definitely going to pay the old guy back, because it's the least he can do, after everything they've put Bobby through over the years.

Shattering glass means that it's Sam, though. Really Sam, and that's something. Dean switches off the TV, drops the remote onto the sofa, makes his way toward Sam's bedroom. The sound turns out to have been the glass of water Dean forgot by Sam's bed –his own damned fault, really, he knows better than to leave glasses lying around in the same room as Sam, even when it's not him in there. He gave up on replacing the panes in the window a while back, just got the heaviest sheet plastic he could get his hands on and duct-taped it over the whole window. He's not sure how they won't freeze in the winter, but he figures maybe they can move south, where it's not so cold.

He's all but stopped expecting that Sam will get better.

Sam is lying with his face mashed into his pillow, arms drawn up over his head. Even the thin shaft of light that's worming its way in past the thick blinds is too much for him to handle when he's like this. Dean yanks open the drawer of the night table, pulls out one of the disposable Imitrex pens, sits down on the edge of the bed and unsuccessfully tries to ignore the low moan it draws from Sam as the bed dips.

"Migraine, Sammy?"

Sam's breath hitches and he mumbles something incomprehensible, but Dean is already carefully swabbing a spot on his arm with an alcohol wipe, delivers the medication with an efficient jab and tries not to feel guilty when his brother flinches and tries to pull away. He raises his head to look at Dean, one pupil shrunk to the size of a pinprick, the other dilated so much that in the darkness of the room the whole eye seems to have turned black. Dean shudders.

"They're all dead," Sam tells him, his tone flat. "There was blood and they stared at me and I can't tell if it's now or yesterday."

The night table in here is bolted to the floor, and there's no movable furniture, but over in the corner Dean hears the ripping sound of wallpaper coming loose from the wall, tearing itself away in strips. They're never getting back their deposit on this place, Dean thinks gloomily.

"You don't have to worry about that, okay? You just focus on getting some sleep, and I'll call Bobby or… or some other hunter, and they'll look into it." They don't know any hunters other than Bobby anymore, at least no hunters who don't actively want to kill them, now that Rufus is gone. "You gonna puke or anything?"

"Don't think so. It just hurts..."

"Aw, Sammy," Dean breathes.

He shouldn't even be touching Sam while his head is hurting, but he can't help it. It's been his job since he was four years old to comfort Sam when he's sick, and the urge to pet his hair or rub his back or do some equally girly shit is pretty much irresistible. To his relief, though, Sam leans into his touch this time rather than flinching and making it all worse, lets Dean pull him into his arms. For a few minutes neither of them say anything, and Dean just listens to his little brother's breathing evening out gradually into sleep.

The Sam who remembers Hell likes to sing under his breath. Constantly, tunelessly. He scratches at his arms and sometimes at his face if Dean doesn't watch him. Dean makes a point of checking the padding on his restraints when he has to tie him down so he won't hurt himself. Sometimes he laughs while Dean is working, his face grim.

"Are you wearing his face again?"

"No, Sammy, it's me. Just me, no one else."

Sam nods, but he's not making eye contact, staring at a fixed point in space about two feet away from the ceiling above his head. His hands are twitching slightly, the fingers flexing and contracting, making the handcuffs clink on his wrists. When he turns his head toward Dean, his eyes are still empty. There's a rusty smear on his upper lip from when his nose bled earlier, when he was a different Sam, convulsing under the effects of yet another vision.

"You don't smile as much. Down there, he liked to smile when he was wearing your face. That was before he'd peel away my skin."

"Sam..."

"He said it was important to enjoy your art, that you enjoyed it while you were torturing, but that's how I knew it was a lie. Sometimes I couldn't tell when he was lying, but I always knew it wasn't you."

Dean snorts. "You think I didn't like it?"

Sam shakes his head, tugs at the restraints. "I remember. You think I don't, but I do, and I'm not crazy, not really. I know crazy, Dean, I've seen my own brain from the outside and watched all the neurons misfire. It was pretty," he says dreamily. "It was like that time you took me to a field and set off fireworks for the Fourth of July. Do you remember that?"

Dean swallows and nods. "I remember."

"It's hot in Hell. I thought it was going to be cold, in the Cage, because of Lucifer, but it wasn't. It was hot, just like you and Ruby said it was. Bone and flesh and terror, and lakes of fire. I could see them burning all the time, flickering out of the corner of my eye. You don't ever smile, Dean."

"I guess not."

"It's my fault. No one ever smiles when I'm there. It's just fire and burning and lakes of tears."

"None of it is your fault," Dean tells him, so sharply that Sam flinches away from his tone, and damn if that doesn't make Dean feel even worse. "You hear me? None of it. It's not your fault and it's not mine. None of that is on us, and we don't deserve any of the crap that's been laid on us all these years. You hear me, Sammy?"

Sam hasn't heard him at all. "I don't like him," he says abruptly.

"Who, Sammy?"

"That Sam-I-Am. I do not like that Sam-I-Am."

Dean doesn't know what to say to that.

"How long are you going to keep me in here?"

This is the Sam Dean hates. He's sitting cross-legged on the bed, playing Cat's Cradle with a shoelace. God only knows where he got it. Or maybe not God. Whatever. Dean rakes a hand through his hair, brings it back down to rub over his mouth.

"It's not safe for you out there, you know that."

"For me, or for everyone else? Or for you?" Sam asks, his tone only mildly interested. He performs a complicated single-handed manoeuvre with the string, almost succeeds until the already-abused shoelace snaps. "Damn."

"So who are you?" It's habit to ask, even though Dean recognizes the soulless version of his brother, would recognize it a mile away.

"I'm Sam. And no, I'm not going to quote Dr. Seuss at you. I think there's been quite enough crazy to go around, don't you?"

Dean bites his tongue.

"I don't suppose you have another shoelace, do you? This room is worse than a monk's chambers. Short of a shoelace, you could always get me a call girl. Bet that would pass the time pretty well, at least until the brother you like better gets his turn behind the wheel and the remaining light bulbs in the house all explode. Think I would have to tip extra for that?"

"Shut up," Dean's already turning to go, but Sam's voice stops him.

"Like it or not, I'm the only functional one you've got. I'm not a gibbering loony spouting nursery rhymes and trying to bite off his own tongue, and I'm not the one who's costing you a fortune in maintenance work. I keep telling you, you should cut the other two off. Cut your losses. I'm better than no Sam at all, right?"

Dean snorts. "You're worse than no Sam at all."

Sam carefully ties another knot into the shoelace. It's too short now, but he seems intent enough on it that Dean's not giving it too much thought. Boredom is their worst enemy when this Sam is in charge, but it's not like Dean can chance leaving much in here that's easily broken, and this Sam doesn't exactly enjoy reading, which leaves books right out.

"You know that you can't actually keep me here, right?"

Dean nods. This Sam is an escape artist, always has been. "That's why the door's not locked and you're not tied down." He can't bring himself to call this thing wearing his brother's meat by Sam's name. "But you said yourself that things are better with me than without me, and the minute you're not flying the ship anymore you're vulnerable. So you stay in there until I say you can come out. Clear?"

"Crystal."

"So how is he?" Bobby asks, probably for the hundredth time. He asks every time Dean calls him, even though the answer doesn't ever change all that much.

"Today it's been mostly the one with the memories of Hell. Christ, Bobby, it's getting so I'm starting to look forward to the episodes with the psycho version. At least then he gets a break," Dean rubs a hand over his mouth, pacing in the tiny kitchenette. "I think we might have to move south a bit. I've tried replacing the window in his room twice, but it doesn't last more than a day or two at best."

There's the sound of rustling papers. "I got a contact or two left I could call," Bobby mutters, clearly distracted by his reading.

"No, it's fine. We'll handle it, we always do. It'll be fine. As soon as I have it worked out, we'll head out, and I'll keep you up to date on where we go. Anyway, you think you can look into that murder Sam says he saw?"

There's a moment of hesitation. "Hard to say," Bobby admits finally. "There ain't much to go on. I'll pass it on down the line, see if anyone's willing to pick up on it and see where the lead takes 'em."

"Thanks, Bobby. I can't ask for much more than that. If circumstances were different, we'd go ourselves. You know that, right?"

"I know, boy. You holding up okay?"

"Fine."

"I don't know how you ever made it as a hunter, being a lousy liar like that," Bobby grumbles.

"Hey! I'll have you know I am a terrific liar. I am, like, a lying artist."

Bobby snorts. "Sure, kid, you keep telling yourself that."

Dean almost drops the phone as the sound of splintering wood followed by a loud crash rings through the kitchen. "Shit. I gotta go, Bobby."

He doesn't even wait for Bobby to say goodbye, hangs up the phone and all but sprints to Sam's room. He half-expects to find Sam curled into a ball, but instead what he sees is what's left of the wreckage of Sam's bed, cracked almost down the middle. Sam is standing by the door, turns to look at Dean with a smirk, and the sight of it makes bile rise up in Dean's throat.

"Looks like little brother broke the last thing that was left to break in here," Sam comments sardonically. "Then he up and abdicated and left me in charge for a while. Figures. At least I don't sleep, because there's no way I can sleep on that. So. Mattress on the floor? Or are we going to move south, like you've been thinking?"

Dean chews on his lip and doesn't answer.

"It makes sense, you know. To travel while I'm in charge. I'm the only one who's functional. It's either you deal with the Impala getting trashed and bled on, even if you're willing to drive with Migraine Boy when he's busy seizing and puking. Or else you deal with Señor Loco and his self-mutilating habits and his damned Doctor Seuss fetish. None of which are all that appealing to me, if you want my opinion."

"I don't."

Sam shrugs. "Look, I need you, same as you need me. I only get to drive this boat part of the time, and someone needs to babysit the other two who can't handle everything that Hell brings with it."

"I thought you didn't remember Hell?"

Another shrug. "I do. We all do. It's just... I don't really care. It hurt, and it sucked, but it's not like it's happening now, right? The others, they're just stuck, living in the past. It doesn't matter now."

Dean's stomach lurches. "What?"

"It's okay. It doesn't bother me."

"How can that be okay? How can remembering any of that be okay?" he asks faintly.

"I can't really explain it. It's like it happened to someone else, I guess. I remember it, but it's like an old movie —all chopped up and the sound is a little off and the colour's not right and it all looks kind of fake and funny now."

Dean presses his lips together tightly, spins on his heel, barely makes it to the bathroom in time to empty the contents of his stomach into the toilet. He stays on his knees for a long time, one arm wrapped around his stomach, the other bracing him against the cool tiles of the back-splash on the bathroom wall. Just above the pulsing of blood in his ears, he hears Sam's footsteps coming down the hall, striding loud and confident.

"We can go south now," his brother says, leaning in the doorway to the bathroom, and he makes it sound like a promise.


End file.
